Blank
There is nothing I hate more in all the world than a blank space. Whether it be devoid of writing, a doodle, a masterpiece, a thought, a picture, or even a single word. I hate the fact that there are places and things unknown to us, and I hate the idea that there may be something out there that the infinitely complex circuitry of our minds cannot comprehend.
In short, I despise the unknown. That is why I am telling you this, not to prove a point, but to fill a little bit of blank space in the world, and to make a little less unknown to us.
Already you form an impression of me, a visual persona of who I am based entirely on my words. My "voice" (as you imagine it) narrates this inside your head. But whose voice is it? Is it yours? It is your best friend's? Is it Morgan Freeman? Is it your Preschool teacher, who taught you to read? Is it your mother, who used to read you bedtime stories when you were little until you fell peacefully asleep? Or is it a stranger? Is it someone that you do not even know? In that case, who is this strange person and what are they doing inside your head? How did they get in there? How long have they been in there? Who are they?
Never mind that now, though, the strange person inside your head can wait until later. I am afraid they will be there for quite sometime... No, now we should talk of other things, more exciting and less terrifying things. Like the voice whispering in your ear right now or the other faces you never see in the mirror. Let us speak of other strangers. The world is full of strangers, people that you do not and will not ever know. Should that bother you? Not particularity. There will always be someone who does not know you exist.
Take Ms. Mariposa Rajiv from New Delhi, apartment number 74 of the Golden Gates building, for example. She does not know you exist, but now you know that she does. Her favorite color is orange and she had her nose pierced when she was 2-years old. She wished she owned a cat, but sadly she is allergic, so she owns a parrot named Raj instead. She also has an irrationally strong love of the sound of people blinking. Sometimes, on her commute home from work, she thinks about driving into upcoming traffic and killing everyone. She is no longer a stranger anymore.
But what about things are stranger than other things? Is someone plucking their eyebrows to the sound of samba music stranger than a cat wearing a bikini in the snow? Is the idea of time travel stranger than the idea of space travel? Is the word Quomodocunquize stranger than the word Uhtceare? Am I stranger than you? Probably.
But let's take the r of of stranger and turn it into strange. Now, let is explore the strange, the bizarre, the taboo, the exceptional, the unusual, the odd, the curious, the peculiar, the mysterious, the perplexing, the creepy, the weird, the unordinary, the supernatural and the unexpected. But let's not get too close, because that would be awkward. Strange things often enjoy their privacy.
Like cats. What the hell is up with cats? Seriously. What is up with our cultures weird obsession with cats? They're like made entirely out of either triangles or lumps. How can a cat be comfortable on things like a chair made of thumbtacks, and your computer keyboard? What is up with cats and their weird obsessions with you when you ignore them? Why do they demand your attention and then run away from you when you give it to them? Who are these small, strange creatures and what do they want from us?
One day, Mr. Lex Portsmouth returned home from buying the groceries to discover that everything in his house had been moved to the left one-half centimeter. He didn't know how. This was strange.
At the same time, Mrs. Amy Chastity was bowling when she heard a single G-sharp note that belonged to a piano appear out of nowhere. There was no piano and no one else heard the note. This too was also strange.
At another moment, Ms. Kate Williams TV reception went out for exactly 3-seconds during her favorite cooking program, in which time she heard a loud explosion come from outside, and felt the earth shake underneath her. She silently vowed to never go outside again. Very strange.
Another time, during the middle of the night Mr. Keith Dimes heard a knock on his door, which then opened and closed of its own volition. This was indeed... strange.
Fish. Why do they smell bad if they are constantly surrounded by water? That makes me think that maybe humans don't even need to bathe at all to keep clean. Maybe we just need to think more like a fish. Glub glub. Glub glub. Glub. Glub. Glub.
So here we are now, at the crossroads. What is strange and what is normal? What is beautiful and what is ugly? What is new and what have we just discovered? What is smart and what is dumb? What is cool and what is so lame that you pretend it's cool just to impress people? These are questions that will never have answers. That is because they are opinions. Opinions are opinions. Stop arguing and get over yourselves. You are probably wrong anyway.
What was I talking about? Oh, yeah: stories. Stories are cool. They're like little elegant, compacted pieces of reality that gets passed from person to person. Alternate versions of the reality we live in now. I mean, think about it: The story might not be true int his reality, but it might be in another. You might be Batman or Frankenstein. Hell, you might even be the main character of your own story.
In that case, what kind of story is your story? Is it a romantic comedy, and are you the witty and hopeless romantic protagonist? Is it a drama, and you a secret agent or a criminal on the run? If so, that's cool. Or is it a horror story? That would certainly lay explain what's standing behind you right now...